


Untitled Logan Fic

by Anaross



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 02:01:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3433625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaross/pseuds/Anaross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Veronica and Logan kept breaking up and getting back together, and Logan thought he could manage this for the rest of his life. It wasn't so bad. </p><p>Until a voicemail makes him want to do right by her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Logan Fic

**Author's Note:**

> Not canon-- alternative after VM S2.  Antiwar, so if that'll offend you, please don't read!
> 
> Alas, I don't own Veronica and Logan, et al. If I did, they'd be happier!

They kept breaking up and getting back together, and Logan thought he could manage this for the rest of his life. It wasn't so bad.  They'd try the dating thing, and Veronica would daringly tell the restaurant hostess, "My boyfriend made a reservation for 7:30," and smile that smile that told him she knew how dangerous it was, calling him that.  And he'd buy her little gifts and help her format her Psych 202 Powerpoint presentation (even though he was pretty sure Powerpoint was an evil plot to lower IQ scores across the nation).  He'd show up when she was on a stake-out — he had some telepathic ability to find her no matter where she was in town– and more than once he got to punch out some creep for her, even though he knew she could do that herself.  He'd quit drinking and cut down on the videogames and fill out a couple college applications, and she'd agree to go skinny-dipping if he actually managed to mail the damn things to the appropriate colleges. 

They'd get along pretty well, so well one or the other would get scared and ruin it. Say or do the unforgivable. Hurl twenty-dollar bills on the table and stomp out of the restaurant.  And then they'd break up for a few weeks, so Logan could get back to drinking, and Veronica could learn again that none of those college boys kissed like him.  And she'd show up at his job (bouncer at a trendy underground club, this month at least) or he'd wait outside her classroom, and they'd be together again. Just friends, she'd say, like they'd ever been friends.  Like they could be just anything. That would last a day or two, both of them careful not to touch hands, careful not to touch at all.  Then they'd touch.

He could maybe do this forever. Wasn't like he had anything else planned for his life.

But she did. College and then some cool job in LA or San Diego, or hell, Paris. Finally break free of this town and all its memories and miseries.  Be new, somewhere new.  Sometimes when he kissed her, he realized that was why she kept coming back to him– because it was always new, no matter how many times they did it. And no matter how many times they broke up, that was new too, because each time they ripped apart in a new place. Crisis junkie, she called him, but she might as well have called herself that. They were just into crisis for different reasons. Her because each time it was new. Him because it was all he knew.

And then Duncan called. Left a message on Logan's voicemail. Logan was about as jealous of Duncan as it was possible to be and still call himself a friend– but even he thought it was an insult to her.  Even he thought that Duncan should have called her to say he was okay, will call back in a few months, take it easy.  Shouldn't just leave a message with Logan. 

Later that night, they were sitting on the beach. Very late– he'd just gotten off work at the after-hours club, and she'd finished an all-nighter that turned out to be a half-nighter.  (She was so smart. She didn't even really have to study, but she did because she was so conscientious and really wanted to learn... sometimes his heart just broke for loving her.)  The tide was out and the ocean was very quiet, and half a moon was overhead.

"Duncan called," he said.

And she turned to him, eyes ablaze, blotting out the moonlight. Asked all sorts of questions he couldn't answer– it was just a 10-second voicemail– and he got out his cellphone and let her listen to the saved message. She hit _replay_ three times. And then she drew herself up and closed the phone and handed it back to him and said, "Let's go back to your place."

He used to think that if he made her happy in bed, she'd be happy out of bed. Happy with him. But it didn't work. Oh, he made her happy enough– he knew she'd never had passion like this before, never had any passion before, never before lost herself and slowed the whir of her busy mind and all those racing thoughts– he alone could make her be still in her mind, not thinking, just being. One with the universe, all that.   He could make that moment happen, of dissolution, of communion. He could see it in her eyes as she came. Wonder. Magic. For just that moment, she could be free of all the chains she put on herself, break the surly bonds of self. Be absolutely with someone else.

And sometimes the next day she would reach out and touch his hand and he'd know she was remembering that moment. She could never recapture it– not until the next time– but she always knew it had happened, that it was possible. That she could let go of herself, and only Logan could help.

He was good at sex. It was the only thing he was good at. (Well, he was a pretty good surfer too.) But that wasn't all he was when he was with her. He was– Well. Guessed he transcended his own surly bonds with her, and Christ knows, no other girl ever did that for him. So maybe Veronica was the one who was good at this. Or maybe they were just good at it together.

Now he only pretended to sleep, letting her drowse against him, feeling the little grit of sand as he stroked her bare arm. He was waiting for her to slide silently away from him, slide down to the floor, locate his cargo shorts, slip her little hand into his pocket and withdraw the phone and listen to that message again.

He forgot, sometimes, how tough she was. She just lay there quiet in his arms, the phone a few feet away.

She didn't have to listen to it. She knew the message– the voice– by heart.

By heart.

Fuck.

He used to be the typical dysfunctional-family kid, except for the famous parents and the huge house and the pool and the trust fund, which all made dysfunction so much easier.  He was a little guy until he hit puberty, short and slight, and back then, he could keep still if he had to– and he had to, sometimes, hiding from his father.  A sneaky child, spying, eavesdropping. And once he was hiding behind the poolhouse, trying to work up enough courage to walk in and tell his dad he'd been sent home from school for swearing, and he overheard his parents fighting. Nothing new– later, when Mom stopped fighting at all, he longed for the old days when she yelled back. But this time– he always remembered it — his father was explaining in that reasonable tone why he'd cheated yet again (why his mother still cared, who knew...) — "Lynn, you have to understand. I would never leave you for another woman. We've been together so long. I love you. But I'm not _in_ love with you."

Logan had always remembered that, always thought that this must mean that being _in love_ was worth anything, even hurting the one you love. Bright and brilliant and dangerous and passionate and true.

Another stupid lesson his father had taught him.

See, Veronica was _in love_ with him.  He could set her world aflame. He could set her body aflame. She got breathless sometimes when she saw him. She traced his mouth with her finger and murmured.  She fought for him and held out her hands to him and let him in places no one else could go.

But she didn't love him.

He didn't know what the fucking difference was. He felt both– couldn't imagine feeling only one. Not for her, anyway. But now he knew.  Love was better. And he would never have that. Not from her. Maybe not from anyone else either.

She loved Duncan, and he didn't understand that, because Duncan – Duncan was so absent.  Had been for years. No one knew that as well as Logan, who once needed him. Still needed him, truth be told.

It was like some Shakespearian comedy.  Orsino loves Rosalind who loves Claudio who loves who the hell cares (he probably got all the names wrong). 

Only it wasn't funny. It hurt.

She deserved the whole package too. Not just half of it. (But maybe she couldn't handle it all... so she loved Duncan but wasn't in love with him... he couldn't give her it all either....)  Someone else. Someone who had never known Lily, maybe.

He could make her stay with him. He couldn't make her love him.

He couldn't keep her. Couldn't be the surly bond.

So he lay there that night and held her and let her go too, with the sunrise.

He let her do it. With them, it was always only a matter of time.  A couple days later, she got mad at him (for good reason)  when she found the stack of college applications in the wastebasket, the envelopes all addressed and stamped (by her). She yelled at him, and he yelled back, and she told him he was a liar and she couldn't trust him, and this was it, for real.  They were breaking up and she meant it this time. And he yelled back, something so juvenile that she'd believe it. _Oh, yeah? Well, you can't break up with me, because I already broke up with you!_

A parting shot.  A door slam.  And two days later, a priority mail envelope with his mix CDs and his cool black condoms and the promise ring he'd given her for Christmas.

It was sort of liberating, in a heart-tearing way.  First thing he did was walk downtown (his license had been suspended again) to Cliff's office across from the old courthouse. "I want to change my name."     Cliff didn't look surprised, any more than when he'd gotten the call to defend Logan on murder charges. Or when Logan called him and asked him to administer the trust with his half of Aaron Echolls's $12 million estate. And so all he did now was lean back in his leather chair and smile. "Popular name, Logan. I'd keep it, if I were you."

Briefly he contemplated changing that too. But he wasn't sure he'd adjust to being called anything else. And anyway, like Cliffie said, it was a popular name, and made him harder to trace. "The last name. And I want it soon, and in a way no one can find out. You know, like the witness protection program. Can you do that?"

Cliff inclined his head. "I don't know. But the family court judge owes me a favor. Best not to ask why.  Let's just say, considering the circumstances– " the pause was Cliff's oh-so-discreet way to refer to the whole dad-killing-son's-girlfriend-mom-committing-suicide thing, or maybe it referred to whatever blackmail-material he held over the judge– "he might be persuaded to waive the waiting period.  But there's also the public notification requirement.  The new identity change must be advertised for four weeks in the local paper, you know."

Logan didn't know. That pretty much sunk his plans to disappear. "So it's right there for Inside Edition to find."

"Inside Edition. Yes." Cliff was okay. He didn't make Logan say it out loud, that he wanted to hide from Veronica, not the papparazzi.  "I think perhaps we can persuade the judge to waive the public notice too.  You might not know this, as attorneys would prefer to keep the business, but it's perfectly legal to change your name yourself, just by using the new identity consistently.  I wouldn't advise that– credit card companies do get suspicious when you tell them you're now Xenon Jasmineblossom– but because of that, judges are perhaps not so scrupulous when it comes to a formal namechange."

"Thanks. And –" Logan wished he could lay his head on the stack of folders before him on the desk. Just lay down his head and rest.  "I'm leaving town. And you'll be my only link left to Neptune. So, well, they might come to you. Asking questions."

"Hacking into my file system," Cliff said ironically. "Those Inside Edition reporters are so techno-savvy. Logan. I assure you. I'll take care of it. I'll close your file. Start a new one with false name– not your new name. And if you pay my exhorbitant hourly rate, I'll scrub all identifying information from my computer and just record on paper what is needed. I'll keep the file in a safe-deposit box in a bank, oh, Las Vegas. And I'll bill you for only my expenses for each monthly trip to that bank."

"Over a long weekend."

"Precisely."

"Let's do it then," Logan said. He meant to get up from the chair, but couldn't just yet, and Cliff didn't make any attempt to speed him along.

"You will have to keep in contact, you know," Cliff said. "So I can send you my bills. And your dividend checks."

"Yeah, but just you." he replied, worrying it through. "She– no one will be able to track me that way, right?"

"I'll make that as certain as I can." Cliff studied him for a moment, then said quietly, "Are you sure you need to go to such lengths?"

Well. That hurt. "Not sure. But just in case."

For a second, he was tempted to just tell all. Drop the sardonic tone and all the attitude and just confess.  Cliff felt like, oh, a much older brother, maybe a half-brother or step-brother, kind in a distant way, wise and cynical and quick on the uptake.  But that was part of Logan's problem.  He kept trying to make people into family. Always been that way.  Duncan, from the first, had been like an un-identical twin. Dick was like the wacky cousin who always got him in trouble.  Jack Kane, well, he was quiet and orderly and calm, and sometimes Logan wanted him as a father (no, not Lily as a sister, that would be too weird).  Of course he never wanted Celeste Kane as a mother – his own mother was just fine, except for the suicide thing.

There was some therapist Mom took him to after Trina left home, who kept talking about boundaries, how Logan needed to establish boundaries, recognize what was him and what was another person, and to let the other person be other.  Now– after Veronica– that made more sense.  He needed her, and he needed her enough that it dissolved all the walls. And, who knows, maybe she needed to be needed.  Or maybe it was just the sex. But Logan had to establish the boundaries, build that wall so high he couldn't scale it if he got desperate later.

So Cliff was his lawyer, not his brother. Logan couldn't invite him out for a beer, or ask him for any non-legal advice, or email him lawyer jokes.  Or tell him his troubles. Just – I need this done. Can you get it done?

He shoved himself out of the chair.  "So you can do it?"

"You have to tell me who you want to be."

When Logan just stared, unable to answer, Cliff said, "The new name."

"Oh. Yeah. Well, I like that Jasmineblossom one."

"Rather long, however."

Logan had already discarded his mother's maiden name– too easy to trace– and his father's real name (Sawicki).  He also gave up (reluctantly) Bebop (from his favorite anime), ditto, and Smith and Jones and Miller and Johnson, because, hey, he wasn't that ordinary. He thought about going thematic (Heller, Hyde, Lawless), but that was kind of like wearing the neon sign of badness. No need to draw attention to himself.  He finally just chose a direction, because that was what Veronica always said he needed. West.  Logan West.  ( _I am but mad,_ Hamlet said, _north-north-west_.) Good enough. Common but not generic. "West."

"West." Cliff started to make a note on a filefolder, then stopped himself and put the pen down. "I'll get the forms ready."

"I'll come by tomorrow to sign."

Cliff nodded. "And bring your birth certificate and passport. I'll file with my friendly judge. You'll need to start gathering name-change forms.  Your driver's license, your high-school transcript. Bank accounts and credit cards– I'll take care of those associated with the trust."

"I'm just going to close everything," Logan said. "Start over again."

Cliff nodded. "Are you going far away?"

"As far as I can get."

 

 

He only got as far as San Diego. Not very far, but far enough.  He took an informal sublet (real informal– the lessee was in 60-day court-ordered rehab), pretty shabby, but right on Pacific Beach. It was a funky area, managing somehow to stay ramshackle in the midst of some of the highest-priced land in the country.  He bought a used surfboard, and got tanned and blonde and laid a few times.  He tried not to think of home. Well, it wasn't home anymore, was it? Just an acre of land with some rubble in the middle. He tried not to think of Veronica.

But he thought of her every day, every night, and one day it just got to be too much and he cruised downtown to the recruiting station and joined the Marines.

The sergeant kept trying to explain the benefits, and Logan waved him aside and demanded a pen and signed the contract – his first official act as Logan West. 

It didn't have anything to do with patriotism.  Didn't have much to do with much of anything. He thought maybe it would be cool to train on the weaponry.  Driving a tank, that would be sweet too.  Maybe see some war– well, that was a given. The war was going to go on forever, and new Marines were prime bomb-fodder. 

Truth was, he didn't have a reason, not even a bad one.  It just kind of seemed like what a guy did when his heart was broken and he was tired of surfing.

But Cliff didn't understand. Or maybe he did. Cliff usually understood. He majored in understanding in law school. "You did _what?_ " 

It was the most emotion he'd ever heard from Cliff.

"I joined the Marines. Baghdad, here I come. Well, Camp Pendleton first."

"Logan." There it was. The big brother voice, coming right through the phone. "Maybe I can get you out of the contract."

"I doubt it. Look. It'll be awesome. They got the best uniforms."

"Logan."

He kept saying that. Logan said, "College benefits like you wouldn't believe."

"Logan. You have $6 million dollars conservatively invested. You don't need college benefits."

"Yeah, well," Logan sat down on the bench and stared at the tide coming in, the moonlight rippling over the waves. "Thought I'd go do my part. Serve my country. Etc."

"Rich kids don't have to serve their country," Cliff said. He sounded ironic again. It was a good sound for him. "It's in the tax law. You get the big cuts, and let the poor kids die for you."

"I just want to get away. Do something new."

"Get your ass blown off." Cliff took a deep, audible breath. "You've done a lot of stupid things in your day, but this–"

"Hey, aren't you all for this war? Didn't you vote Republican?"

"Are you kidding?"

"Oh." Logan smiled to himself. "I think you're the first person I know who admitted to voting Democrat."

"That's because you only know rich people. Listen," Cliff said. "Tell 'em you want officer training.  That might keep you home for a couple years–"

"Me. An officer and a gentleman? Dream on."

"This isn't a stunt, Logan. You're going to regret this. Soon."

Logan didn't doubt it.  But then, there wasn't much he didn't regret. "Does she ever ask about me?"

It was too close. Too intimate. Too needy. But Cliff answered in a smooth tone, like it was a legal question, abstract. "Veronica? She asked once, and I told her you were gone and didn't want to be found."

"That was enough to discourage her, huh?"

"Yes, if by _discouraged_ you mean breaking and entering and rifling through my files.  She doesn't know– or maybe doesn't care– about my security camera."

Logan found himself absurdly gratified. Then he felt guilty. The whole point of this was to let her go, after all. Let her be happy.  "Tell her–"

"No." Cliff was surprisingly firm. Not even a hint of sarcasm in that easy voice.  "You can call her if you like.  But I'm not going to act as your go-between."

Well. So much for nurturing big brother Cliff.  Logan rang off and stared out at the water, and thought of what it would be like hearing her voice again. Just once. He got up and walked up to the boardwalk, and across the street to the drugstore. He bought a disposable cellphone, and took it out to the alley, far enough away he didn't think she could hear the surf.  Before he could think through it, dialed her father's office number. It was late. No one would be there. The answering machine message used to (just a month ago) have her voice. Just to hear it again....

She answered. Quick. Out of breath. It was really her. No recording.

He couldn't speak.  But she must have recognized his breathing, or his breath-holding, because she said, "Logan? Logan? Don't hang up."

He didn't. But he didn't say anything either. He was realizing, suddenly, that she probably thought he was like Duncan– running away. Leaving her alone. But he wasn't. That wasn't why he left. He didn't leave to save himself. Probably not.

"Logan–" her voice was wavering just a little. "We have call-forwarding, you know. So you can call the office anytime, okay? I'll get the call."

"Okay," he said. It wasn't what he meant to say.  He didn't mean to say anything at all.

"Are you all right?" she said.

"Yeah. What about you?"

"Uh, fine. I guess. School's okay."

"Saw in the paper that Wallace had 23 points in the conference semis the other night."

"He came in second for player of the year. Pretty good for a freshman." She laughed. It sounded good. It sounded real. "All the girls want to go out with him. They try to be my friend to get close to him.  They think I'll give them a letter of recommendation or something."

"What about you? Dating anyone?"

She was quiet for a moment. "Well, you know. I keep busy."

That meant yes.  "I got to go, babe," he said.

"No! Don't. Where are you?"

"A ways away. Don't worry about me."

"Well, I do," she said sharply. "I always do."

"I don't want you to." And this time he meant it.  He used to think that worrying was about love. But it wasn't. It was just about worrying. And it wasn't fair to make her feel that way, all anxious about him all the time, like when they were dating. "I'm fine. Off the drugs and alcohol." Mostly. The drugs anyway.

"Oh," she said. She sounded relieved. "I get it. You've been in rehab all this time."

It was as good a story as any. "I'm supposed to meditate, you know. Find my inner calm. Avoid stress."

"Avoid me, you mean." This time, the laugh was just halfway. "Champion stressgirl."

"It's not you," he said. "It's just ... the whole scene. My parents, and that house, and the town, and everyone.  I'm better now."

"One day at a time," she said bleakly.

It was as good a directive as any.  "Live every day as if it's your last."

That made her laugh. "That's really not a good motto for recovery, you know."

"Oh. Right. Got the wrong subliminal tape running at night, I guess." And then he leaned back against the brick alley wall. "Veronica, I have to go. Really."

"Don't. Let's talk."

"You're trying to trace my call, aren't you?"

"Not having much success. Damn those drugstore cellphones. Look." She gulped in a deep breath, and it hurt his chest to hear her.  "You're going to keep in touch?"

This was what his weakness led to.  He just wanted to hear her voice, and now she wanted a promise.  He reminded himself that pretty soon she'd know it was a relief that he was gone from her life. That she was going to be fine, have a great future, as long as he wasn't around to drag her down with all his troubles and sorrows and angers. But he could promise, couldn't he? Just promise, so she wouldn't feel rejected when that was the last thing he wanted. Just promise, so they could get off the phone with some measure of peace.

But he couldn't. Not fair to her. "I'm such a fuckup, V. You know that. So no. I'm gone. We're done."

It was maybe unnecessarily brutal. But if he tried to say anymore through his tight throat, he'd probably start crying, and that wasn't fair either.

Anyway, this was Veronica, and she understood. "Okay. But... well. Okay."

"I can't hang up on you, baby."

"I know," she whispered. "You never could. Wuss."

"You'll have to. Goodbye."

She did it. Hung up.

He looked around for a dumpster, located one at the back of the alley.  He tossed the phone, and walked away, and the next day reported to camp to do his patriotic duty.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on LiveJournal in November 2006.


End file.
